Smile
by Taita
Summary: Azkaban oneshot. Death and darkness, mindgames and insanity. HD


**Disclaimer: never did, never will, Harry Potter is not mine**

**Smile**

Movement in the shadows, rocking, trembling, "bright and beautiful" a hoarse voice repeated it's mantra over and over. He buried his head in his pale arms; every dancing shadow mocked him flitting over his face, bottomless holes for eyes.

Time was strange here, days bled into each other, passing like water through a sieve, yet seconds were like centuries. Most of the time he just didn't care.

He was very happy here; it really was the best place to forget. Pushing the memories back with his mantra little by little, until they simply ceased to be. That was he only thing important in the shifting planes of this perfect place. The words. As long as he was repeating the words he was invincible no one and nothing could touch him, he was protected.

They were all saying bad things, horrible lies, but if he said the magic words,_ they _could never get in.

The thin body spasmed as a hysterical giggle was released.

It gave him endless amounts of satisfaction to know that he could beat the voices.

He knew that other people weren't so lucky.

Every few hours violent screaming would jerk him upright and he would proceed to slam his hands over his ears, rocking so hard he would bang the back of his head against the stones and see bright stars. The screams terrified him and suppressed memories would begin to move threatening to surface, those were the dangerous times when utter control was needed. A single slip and _they _would have no mercy.

He shuddered convulsively, digging ragged fingernails into his scarred palms.

Light flooded the tiny room as the heavy bars were pushed open, wincing at the intense change of light he sat perfectly still; the faint scent of lemons surrounded him as the person came closer and embraced him. He trembled at the action, suddenly it was too warm, he was suffocating, drowning, and they wouldn't let go. He couldn't think, darkness flooded his senses then flashes of light, the voices were deafening, a wild chorus, screaming and wailing.

He pulled his neck back as far as he could and smashed his forehead into the offending body, there was a muted gasp as the hold was loosened but not relinquished completely. The body slumped onto him the weight dragging him down toward the floor. Desperately trying to keep the mantra going and calm himself down, he shoved it away.

Scrambling into the furthest corner of his cell pulled his knees into himself and looked.

A bolt of pure shock ripped up his spine, his eyes went impossibly wide.

White hair….long white hair, blue cloak, half-moon glasses. The snowy hair was streaked with dull red, the kindly face distorted with pain… glazed blue eyes.

He was so still.

He opened his mouth to scream, but no words came out. The room was too small he couldn't escape that color. Red, everything was red. A flash of colour flared in his mind….a face. That face he knew that face, there was something…..something important. 'Draco' it floated delicately to the surface of his mind like fresh snow flakes.

The prisoner gripped his head, shaking it violently, blood flecked tufts of raven stuck to his shoulders and knees as the grip strengthened dragging his hair out by the roots.

The memories were flooding in fast; pain, betrayal, hatred, need, want….love. The promise, "I'll be back for you, I swear it. Wait for me", ripped apart, Azkaban.

The body carried past his cell, dark blood weaving a path through pale, delicate fingers. Face covered with a blue sheet, only the tips of his blindingly white hair visible. There was no one else with hair like that.

It started. A low desperate keening, graduating into muted screams of self loathing, of realization

Footsteps, voices, hands. He was forced to the floor, a white hot flash of pain as the needle punctured his arm. Then he was drowning, overcome by the darkness.

He awoke days later, with no recollection of what had happened. Sitting with his back to the wall, he smiled feeling the familiar bricks pressing into his back. Absentmindedly rubbing a purple bruise on his arm he fell seamlessly into the mantra, "bright and beautiful"

'It is a nice day isn't it', he beamed up at the windowless wall, the sunlight filling his cell and the warmth playing on his skin. A perfect world of his own making, there were no dark places here where a bright sun marked the passage of time.

**End**


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